


Stick In the Mud

by Transposable_Element



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Age of Winter (Narnia), Birds and Beasts, Community - Freeform, Gen, Jadis - Freeform, Marsh-wiggles, Narnian Subcultures, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7927939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transposable_Element/pseuds/Transposable_Element
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter comes to the northern marshes. Who is better prepared for disaster than Marsh-wiggles?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Worst News

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snitchnipped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snitchnipped/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scout brings news from the south.

Pikebeak flew slowly over the marsh, looking for Mudbank. She checked two of his favored fishing spots before spying him sitting cross-legged beside a channel in the high marsh. His fishing line was dangling in the water, and beside him was a basket about half full of eels.

The Egret angled down and landed in the water, and Mudbank turned his head, nodding. “Evening, Pikebeak,” he said.

“Evening, Mudbank.” It would never do to wish a Marsh-wiggle a _good_ evening, even in good times, which these were not.

“What have you found out?” Mudbank asked.

“Nothing good,” said Pikebeak.

“Not surprised. What is it? Magician’s curse? Invasion by Frost Giants? Wrath of the Emperor Over Sea?”

“Invasion, but not by Frost Giants.”

Mudbank nodded. “Well, I suppose we ought to have expected it. Good times never last.”

Pikebeak refrained from pointing out that as far as Marsh-wiggles were concerned, there were no “good times,” only times that people naively thought were good until everything went to hell. “Don’t you want to know what’s happened?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Tell me the worst.”

“The Tree is down,” she said.

Even Mudbank wasn’t prepared for that. For the first time, Pikebeak saw what a Wiggle looked like when his normally glum expression turned to shock and horror.

“What? But…by the Lion, this is worse than…worse than…” Mudbank stuttered to a stop, then took a breath and began again. “How did it happen?”

“Treason,” said the Egret. “Renegades in the pay of the Enemy chopped it down, then rooted out the stump and burned everything, including a lot of Dryads that tried to stop them. Nobody knows how they got past all the safeguards.”

“But who were the renegades?”

“The leaders were Men, but there were Dwarfs and Beasts as well. We don’t know who all of them were. They couldn’t have done it without a few Wood Spirits among them. In any case, the Apple Tree no longer protects Narnia, and you know what that means.”

“Jadis,” Mudbank said.

“Yes. She’s moved in, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“King Harrild dead?”

“Turned to stone, him and the whole royal family, and then crushed to bits with mallets, so I’m told.”

Mudbank shook his head sorrowfully. “A terrible business...."

"Terrible."

"And this cold weather is her doing?”

“Yes. It's winter all over Narnia now. The pass to Archenland is completely snowed in. Birds have been scouting through the land, and it seems like we’ve gotten off lightly up here.”

“So far,” said the Wiggle.

“So far. I wonder why.”

The two gazed over the marsh. The ground was frosty, but there was no snow, and the pools and streams of the marsh were icy, but open. It might have passed for an unseasonable cold snap, were it not for the deep drifts of snow just visible to the south of the marsh.

“Winter’s hard up here, even if the marsh doesn’t freeze over, which it generally does,” said Mudbank.

“In a normal winter we all get along fine here, and you know it. But this is different. Some of us lost nests in the freeze, and that means some of the dumb birds must have as well. Will they lay again? Will they go nest somewhere else? Will they come back here when the chicks are grown? Will the fish come up here to spawn? Will _anything_ grow normally?”

Mudbank took out his pipe and tobacco. As he lit the pipe, which took a lot of coaxing, he looked across the marsh toward the Ettinsmoor, where it was still early summer. Then he stood up. “We’ll have to call a Wiggle Moot,” he said.

“A what?”

“A gathering of Wiggles. Doesn’t happen often. The last time was, oh 40 years ago or more, when I was just a lad. We had that trouble with the Muskrats, had to work out a new agreement with them about bulrush foraging rights. I suppose it was before you were hatched. But these are desperate times. We’ve a lot to discuss.”

Pikebeak had never in her life heard of a gathering of more than four Wiggles at a time, and even that was rare. Desperate times, indeed.

“On second thought,” continued Mudbank, “we’ll have to make it a Marsh Moot. Invite the Birds and Beasts in as well. I’ll need your help. Do you think we could get the word out before tomorrow night?”

“I think so. There aren’t that many of us.”

“Then we meet at the Great Sandbank. Tomorrow, sunset.”

Pikebeak flew off to spread the word.

 


	2. The Moot

Mudbank had called the Moot, so it was his duty to officiate. Early in the day he visited the site. The sand was dry, and there was no ice except at the water’s edge. He cleared a space for a fire in a flat central area. A pair of Beavers, Willowbite and Aldertwig, showed up during the morning, offering to float logs downstream to use as seats. Later on, Wiggles began dropping by to help set up. Mudbank was surprised at the offers of help, as marsh dwellers (excepting some Birds) tended to be solitary. But he was relieved that folks were taking this situation to heart.

Long before sunset a large crowd had gathered, mostly Wiggles and Birds, but also the Beavers, a few Muskrats, a family of Deer, a Fox, and a dozen rowdy Otters. Some Wiggles were busy building a fire of peat and twigs. The Otters were slipping in and out of the frigid river, wriggling through the crowd showering people with icy water, and chattering non-stop. The light was not yet fading—despite the wintry weather, the Sun seemed to know that it was still summer—and Mudbank could see more Wiggles out on the marsh, making their way to the meeting.

Being around so many other Wiggles made Mudbank feel awkward and anxious. He coped as best he could by speaking to them one or two at a time. He greeted his elder sister, Fogbank, whom he had not seen in nearly 10 years. She had come with her husband, Peaty, and their daughter, a gawky, sullen adolescent named Cloudburst.

“Have you seen Mother or Father?” Mudbank asked.

“Father’s living up on the Dry Side with some other elders. His arthritis is so bad he couldn’t make it to the Moot, but he asked me to remind you that he’s been predicting a catastrophe since before we were born. Mother’s over there with the Twins.”

“Ah, I suppose I ought to go say a word to them, then,” said Mudbank, and he made his way over to a loose group of old Wiggle women sitting near the fire.

Twins were rare among Marsh-wiggles, and Bittern and Avocet were the only pair born in several generations. Rarer still, they had the ability to prophesy. And they had lived together their entire lives, which was virtually unheard of. Their birth names were long forgotten; as was traditional for Wiggles with the Sight, they had gone to the local Council of Marsh Birds when they came of age and asked permission to take bird names. Old, frail, and wise, they were the closest thing to leaders for the Wiggles of the Salt Marsh.

“Evening, Ladies,” said Mudbank, tipping his hat. They nodded silently.

“Will you be speaking at the Moot?” he asked.

The twins looked at each other. Then Bittern, who generally spoke for the two of them, turned to Mudbank. “Yes. We have Seen ahead.”

“And it’s bad?”

“Of course,” said Bittern.

Mudbank waited a moment, but she said no more. He nodded to the Twins and his mother. “I must get things started,” he said.

Mudbank was pushing toward the center to start the moot when he saw Cranefly. He stopped short. It had been two years since he had last seen his wife, and he had almost forgotten how beautiful she was. Her name fit her well, as her limbs were long and spindly even for a Wiggle.

“Evening, Cranefly,” he said.

“Evening.”

“Did you bring Waterstrider?”

“He’s a little young for this. I left him up on the Dry Side with my grandmother.”

“Ah.”

“This moot your idea?” she asked.

“Yes. These are the darkest of times. Nothing much we can do about it, but no harm in trying.”

Cranefly was looking at him with a curious expression. Her eyes were like silty water, brown and soft.

They had been married fifteen years, but Wiggle marriages tend to ebb and flow. Couples might live together for five or six years—sometimes longer, if there was a child—part for a time, and come together again. Several years ago Cranefly had asked Mudbank to move out, which he had done readily enough, going far enough that they wouldn't bump into each other by accident, but staying near enough that their son could come to visit him. If Cranefly changed her mind, she could always seek him out. Still, Mudbank had to admit that he missed her and the boy, and without much forethought he found himself saying, “I don’t suppose you’d want to try living together again.”

“I’ve thought about it. It might not be such a terrible idea to give it another go. But we’d best not talk about it until after this is all settled.”

“Well then. So we will.”

She nodded and went to find a seat.

 _All the more reason to get this business settled_ , Mudbank thought.

 

 

The Moot started with reports from Birds.

Pikebeak told of the fall of the Tree, the conquest of Narnia by the Witch, and the onset of a magical Winter all over Narnia.

A Night Heron who had scouted upstream reported that the Shribble had escaped the freeze. Many Beasts were fleeing along the riverbank or the river itself. Refugees had already passed through, heading toward the coast, and soon there would be many more.

A Tern reported that the whole estuary was free of snow. This caused a stir. “No snow at all in the salt marsh? How can that be?” somebody from the crowd asked. There was a general murmur, but Mudbank called for quiet. They would have time to discuss it after the Birds finished their reports.

A Harrier had gone to see the Centaur Heartwood, asking for a prophecy. Of course the Bird was not the first to ask, and Heartwood had told her what he had told everybody else: “ _When Adam’s flesh and Adam’s bone sit at Cair Paravel in throne, the evil time will be over and done_.”

“What is the use of a prophecy like that?” asked a Wiggle in the crowd. “It tells us nothing! We had a Son of Adam as our king, and he is dead, overthrown!”

“Typical useless vague Centaur prophecy!” shouted someone else.

“The Witch believes it,” said the Harrier. “She is killing the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve as fast as she can.”

“Serves them right, leading the renegades,” yelled someone else.

Mudbank motioned for quiet before things got out of hand. “Enough of that. What do Bittern and Avocet say?” he asked.

The Twins looked at each other. Then Bittern said, “One hundred years of Winter. We have Seen it.”

The crowd fell quiet. One hundred years.

“Well, what do we do?” someone asked.

“Fight! Fight the Witch!” shouted several of the Otters, and in a moment all of the Otters were calling for blood. The Harrier gave a cry, and the Fox sat up on his haunches. A flock of Sandpipers started peeping anxiously.

“Don’t be absurd,” screeched Pikebeak, over the din. “The Witch can turn you to stone, I tell you!” Several Otters let out yells of fury.

“Fight if you must, but no one here tonight will live to see Narnia delivered,” said Bittern.

At this, a gloomy silence fell.

A Wiggle stood and asked to speak. Mudbank gestured to him. “Hard times are ahead. We all see it, and it’s no surprise, is it? But if anybody is prepared for the worst, it’s Wiggles.”

The crowd murmured agreement.

One of the Muskrats spoke up. “I’d like to hear more about the salt marsh. It’s cold for June, but Winter doesn’t seem to have set in here, as it has in the rest of Narnia. Why not?”

There was some debate about this. Some said the estuary was really part of the sea, not Narnia, and therefore less affected. Some said that the Shribble emptied into the estuary, and therefore the salt marsh was part of the river, part of the boundary, rather than part of either Narnia or the Ettinsmoor. Several Wiggles declared that worse times were sure to be ahead, and the magical Winter would come to the salt marsh eventually, you mark my words.

Mudbank called a halt before the debate devolved into bickering.

Fogbank stood and spoke: “It doesn’t matter why, does it? The question is, how do we manage?”

“Hear, hear! Where are we to get pipe tobacco? The merchants down south we trade with are all snowed in!” said a middle-aged Wiggle.

Some Wiggles surreptitiously stashed their tobacco pouches inside their tunics or the folds of their cloaks.

“We might trade directly with the Galmans,” suggested a younger Wiggle.

“Or the Seven-Islanders,” said another. “I hear—“

Willowbite the Beaver interrupted: “By the Lion, why are we wasting time talking about tobacco? There are greater matters at stake.”

There was some muttering amongst the Wiggles, many of whom disagreed with this assessment.

“What about our brethren in the south? Are we not Narnians?” asked Willowbite.

The Birds and Beasts cried out, “yes!” but most of the Wiggles were silent.

A middle-aged Wiggle named Dragonfly stood. “Well, are we? Up here in a part of the country nobody else cares about, including Jadis? The rest of Narnia has never much minded us one way or another. They laugh at us, and they’ve never heeded our warnings about dark times ahead. Why should we help them now?”

“But that’s just why we might be helpful,” insisted Willowbite. “Jadis doesn’t seem to think of us as part of Narnia. She’s not interested in conquering us. What do the Twins say?”

The old ladies looked at each other. Bittern nodded regretfully. “It is so. She does not see us. She does not heed us. Her Winter will reach into the marsh, but never overtake it.”

“Well then,” said a Muskrat, sounding relieved, “We don’t have much to worry about, do we? Most of us spend the winter in the salt marsh anyway. If she thinks—”

But Mudbank interrupted. “Do we let Jadis decide whether we are Narnians, or do we decide that for ourselves?” he asked.

For a moment, Mudbank feared that nobody would take the challenge. But then several young Wiggles stood. One thumped the butt of his fishing spear on the sand, and another yelled, “Narnians forever!” Soon most of the Wiggles were on their feet and taking up the cry.

It was a stirring moment, but soon it was time for everybody to sit down and do what Wiggles do best: find a way to persevere in the face of disaster.

 

 


	3. New Neighbors

One cool, fresh morning a month after the Moot, Mudbank awoke as the sun was rising. He crawled out of his wigwam and stretched his long legs and arms. His new camp in the salt marsh had a long view in every direction. It was clear, and the light breeze carried a piquant hint of methane.

About a quarter mile to the south he saw a wigwam on a narrow spit of land between two channels. Someone must have set it up last night after dark, and perhaps he had not noticed Mudbank’s camp.

More Narnians arrived every day. Some were just passing through, on their way to the coast to take ship to one of the island nations, or Archenland, or even further. Some were here to gather supplies to take back to their brethren in the south. But some seemed to take a liking to the marsh itself, and to the austere marshland society. Mudbank was growing accustomed to new neighbors.

But this was clearly a Wiggle, and he hoped it was somebody who knew how to keep to himself, because he had never had such a near neighbor before.

Mudbank took out his tobacco pouch and sniffed the last of his old stash. People said the new Galman tobacco wasn’t as good, and that it was a sad indication of how low they had fallen, smoking such stuff. But then, that’s what they _would_ say. He filled his pipe and lit it, savoring the smoke. He made a fire to brew a pot of chicory while he ate his breakfast of mussels and mud potatoes left over from the night before.

After a few minutes, a young Stilt glided in and alighted by the fire.

“Freshwater mussels,” said the Bird.

“And mother of pearl,” said Mudbank, giving the countersign. “Pikebeak sent you?”

“Yes. I’m the new courier, Sharpy. Good to meet you."

"And you. What's the news?"

"Pikebeak’s still at Anvard. She says to tell you that they’re still getting Narnians coming over the mountains. King Col is willing to help them, but he says there’s no way to mount an attack on Narnia from the south. Pikebeak agrees. The mountains aren’t a barrier to Birds and some Beasts, but Sons of Adam need the pass. And Jadis has suborned some of the Sea People, so the coastal route is closed, too. Pikebeak thinks that for now, it’s best to concentrate on getting refugees out and food and goods in. The fewer people depending on the Witch for supplies, the better.”

Mudbank nodded. “Well, you can tell Pikebeak that we finally found a site for the new port. It’s not much of a harbor, but at high tide it’s deep enough for all but the largest of the Terebinthian galleons. In the meantime, we’re getting by with rowboats ferrying goods back and forth from the ships. And Willowbite has plans for some big canoes that ought to be able to get up far into the marsh.”

“How are you paying the traders?” asked the Stilt.

“Gold and jewels, if you can believe it! We had a delegation of Dwarfs about ten days ago. They say they owe a debt because some of their kinsmen helped the renegades. Very eager to make restitution.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Won’t last forever, of course, but when it runs out we can trade pearls and mother of pearl and salt, like we used to do.”

“Any other messages for Pikebeak?”

Mudbank took out a small sheaf of reed paper. Sharpy shook her head. “Pikebeak says nothing written down. Too dangerous.”

“Aye, I suppose not. Mustn’t take chances. Can you memorize all of these?”

“Of course! My nickname isn’t Birdbrain for nothing!”

 

After the Stilt left, Mudbank got into his canoe and paddled down to meet his new neighbor. It was now an hour past sunrise, but the neighbor hadn’t stirred yet. Mudbank wondered whether to wait or to continue on his way. Then he noticed the decoration around the base of the wigwam, a familiar design of intertwined trout and marsh grass. He shipped his paddle and lit his pipe.

After a while, his new neighbor crawled out of the wigwam.

“Morning, Cranefly,” said Mudbank.

“Morning, Mudbank.”

“I dare say you’ve had a bad night. Damp over here.”

“I’ve camped in worse places,” she said, with a shrug.

Waterstrider followed his mother out of the wigwam. “Morning, Dad,” he said.

“Morning, Son. You’ve grown an inch or three since spring, I see. You’ll be outgrowing all your clothes in no time, and then what are we to do, with so few goods coming in, and those needed down south. What hard times we live in. Hard times.”

All three Wiggles shook their heads solemnly.

“Ma says there are reeds in the marsh she can use to make cloth,” said Waterstrider.

“Not as good as the finished goods we used to get, of course,” put in Cranefly.

“Aye. Well, what are you two up to today?”

“Ma says she’s going to show me how to harvest bulrush tubers.”

“There’s a stand of them up that a way, but the channel’s a bit deep for wading. I could run you over in the canoe if you like,” said Mudbank.

“We can wade. Canoe’s bound to tip if it’s overloaded. Besides, we’d have to wade back anyway, unless you’re going to be here all day,” said Cranefly.

“No, can’t stay. I have some business down at the new dock.”

“I thought as much. Perhaps we’ll see you later on. Being as we’re near neighbors again,” said Cranefly. Then she squatted down and uncovered the embers of last night’s fire. She got out a frying pan and began whistling tunelessly.

Mudbank took that as his signal to leave. He put away his pipe and, with a wave to his son, continued paddling down the channel. After a while he looked back. He could see Cranefly with Waterstrider riding on her shoulders as she waded off toward the bulrushes.

Mudbank did have business at the new dock today, but he thought this evening he would go visiting. As his Uncle Fishwhistle used to say, only an oyster’s tears can make a pearl.

**Author's Note:**

> In response to the prompt, "I would love a narrative about those affected when the White Witch took over. Families torn apart, those who went who into hiding, those who chose to flee Narnia, those who became victims... whatever strikes your fancy--I'm leaving this fairly open to interpretation! Original characters welcome!"
> 
> I have used a somewhat different geography of the marsh and the Shribble than that shown in the Baynes map in _The Silver Chair_. But we can assume that the marsh, like the rest of Narnia, changed over time.
> 
> Many thanks to [Syrena_of_the_lake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/) for the beta!


End file.
